


Some Kings Never Fall

by JeromeClarke107



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, Peter being hopelessly in love with Dylan, Peter's suspension doesn't get lifted, Prompt: Silence so loud it deafens, chess references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 02:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17572535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeromeClarke107/pseuds/JeromeClarke107
Summary: In which his suspension never gets lifted, and Peter Maldonado spends thirty glorious days falling in love with a king.





	Some Kings Never Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Silence so loud it deafens" on an abstract prompt list created by shocvvaves on tumblr.
> 
> *You can find me on tumblr under love13RW!!

Peter Maldonado teaches Dylan Maxwell how to play chess on the hottest week of the year, the sun looming overhead as they lounge in Dylan’s air-conditioned bedroom, laying comfortably across from each other on the bed in his otherwise silent home. 

Dylan, a blunt between his fingers and a smile on his face, seems unusually relaxed for a person who’s entire future is dependent on people who couldn’t care less about him if he were mud on the ground. Except for Peter and Sam of course, it must feel as if the entire world has decided that Dylan Maxwell is a failure, a fuck up. 

The sun taunts them outside as Peter teaches him the rules, smoke blowing into his face from the blunt between Dylan’s fingers. Peter brushes it away with his hand and continues. 

“So the pointy one can only move diagonally?” 

Peter sighs. 

“The bishop. Yes, it can only move diagonally. The knight moves in an ‘L’ shape and the rook moves straight, left and right. And the pawns can move forward one space, but they capture diagonally.” 

Dylan already looks confused, but determined. 

“And the queen moves any way she wants.” 

Peter nods, “Right, except for in an ‘L’ shape.” 

“So what the fuck does the king do?” 

“It can move one space in any direction,” Peter repeats himself. 

Dylan blinks his eyes slowly and takes another drag from his blunt. 

“So why is he the most valuable piece on the board again?” 

“Because the entire goal is to protect the king. The king’s the leader.” 

“Some king. Can’t even protect himself.” 

“That’s not the point. The king’s worth protecting because-“ 

Dylan blinks up at him, dazed. Peter doesn’t have it in him to argue. 

“It doesn’t matter. You just have to protect him.” 

“I guess,” Dylan doesn’t seem content to leave this conversation yet, but relents to let Peter make the first move all the same. He moves a pawn out. 

Dylan stares at the board for at least five minutes before his eyes meet Peter’s again. 

“Dude, I completely forgot which piece can jump.” 

If Peter rolls his eyes, he doesn’t mean to. 

“The knight, Dylan.” 

Dylan stares at him for a few more moments. 

“The horse.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

. . . 

They’ve played three games. Peter expects Dylan to throw the board at any moment now. 

“This game’s impossible,” He sounds annoyed but makes no move to toss anything across the room. Peter wonders if that would require too much energy. 

“Maybe it is impossible when you’re high.” 

“I think best when I’m high. It relaxes me.” 

Peter shakes his head in exasperation. 

“You keep trying to move the rook diagonally. It can only move up and down and side to side. The bishop moves diagonally.” 

“They look alike.” 

“They don’t.” 

Dylan blows smoke in his face. It’s probably intentional this time. 

Peter rolls his eyes and goes back to playing. The fourth game doesn’t move any farther in Dylan’s favor, especially when Peter takes his queen on the seventh move. Dylan sighs and lights another blunt. Peter thinks he may have a problem. 

. . . 

“Don’t you have a school to be bored at?” 

Peter laughs. Maybe he’s getting a contact high. 

“Not right now. Suspended, remember? For your sorry ass.” 

Dylan smiles. 

“Right.” 

He takes a long drag. 

“Alright. Let’s fucking play so I can feel like shit about myself. Hand me pointy-head.” 

“Bishop, Dylan. Bishop.” 

“Whatever. It has a fucking pointy head.” 

Dylan loses every game again, but gets less frustrated this time. He smokes a lot more too, laughing at inopportune moments and nudging Peter when he captures his queen, even though his own will inevitably be taken in the next move. 

Dylan throws back his head and laughs when he loses for the fifth time, letting it fall back onto the pillow behind him while smoke fills the room and Peter resets the board. He pulls Dylan up by interlocking their hands and tugging his body forward, back towards the game. Towards another loss. 

Dylan doesn’t start playing though. He just stares at Peter for a few moments, giggling quietly every now and then. All of a sudden, he stands up. 

“I need wine. Do you need wine?” 

“I’ve never had wine.” There’s no reason to be dishonest. 

“You need wine.” 

Dylan leaves the room and Peter watches him go. It’s still sweltering outside, and Peter thinks less than affectionately about Mr. Kraz’s history classroom, boiling hot and filled with sweaty kids that don’t know how much cologne is too much. 

He’s grateful to be here with Dylan. It’s so much better than what awaits him when he returns. He just hopes that it will wait for Dylan too. 

Dylan brings back two plastic cups and fills them with his mom’s special wine that she hides in the garage. Dylan had told Peter about her stash the day they’d first met, joking that they should at least get drunk together before he lets Peter ask him anything too personal. He’d be willing to bet Dylan’s shared his mom’s secret wine with more than just Peter. 

Dylan hands him the cup and they drink until chess is a faraway thought, and the only thing that remains clear in Peter’s otherwise blurred vision is Dylan’s smile. 

. . . 

Peter notices the change on the third day. For the first time since their impromptu lessons had begun, Dylan’s trying. 

He’s trying to win, caring about the outcome for once. He’s focusing on the pieces, calculating his moves carefully and smoking only a few blunts since Peter sat down across from him three hours ago. It’s a side of Dylan Peter’s never seen before, a side that takes something seriously. 

“So my pointy-head can’t take your queen because he can’t jump, right?” 

Peter drops his head. The bishop will be pointy-head forever. 

“Bishops can’t jump, Dylan.” 

“So I was right?” 

He looks proud of himself, of his correct guess. It’s endearing. 

“Yeah, you would be if you would bother to learn the pieces’ names.” 

Dylan’s smile doesn’t falter. 

Peter realizes then that he should pick his battles. 

. . . 

Dylan keeps biting his lip, tugging it in between his teeth as he contemplates the board, the appropriate move to throw Peter off his trail. 

It’s so fucking distracting, Peter wants to scream. 

“Can I do that?” 

Peter doesn’t hear him, is too busy staring at the lip that now has small teeth marks indented into its flesh. 

“Hey! Dipshit!” 

Dylan hurls a pillow at his head, forcing his eyes to lose contact with Dylan’s bottom lip. 

“I’m sorry, what did you ask me?” 

“Can the queen move this way?” 

He indicates a sharp, diagonal move. It puts Peter’s king in check. 

“Yeah. You can, Dyl.” 

He smiles, satisfied with himself, and moves his queen in a manner that puts Peter in a difficult position of his own. Especially since Dylan’s lip is still captivating his thoughts. 

Peter weakly moves his King back into its starting position on the board, sitting comfortably between his two rooks. Dylan’s teeth find his lip again. Peter’s going to lose his fucking mind. 

Dylan stares at the board long and hard, but Peter’s eyes can’t leave him, are glued steadfastly to the lip cradled between his teeth. He wants to move his hand forward, pull Dylan’s lip from his mouth with his thumb, tell him not to do it anymore because Peter can’t fucking get a grip, can’t calm his racing mind. 

It’s hot, he realizes, as another pillow makes contact with his head. 

“Asshole,” Peter mutters as he tries to regain his composure. 

“I asked you a question. Again. What the fuck is up with you today?” 

You are, Peter thinks. You’re what’s wrong with me. 

“Can I move my queen here?” 

Dylan’s so unsure of himself, but there’s a light glimmering in his eyes that Peter hasn’t seen there before. If only he could look at his eyes for more than a millisecond. His bottom lip’s red now, raw from being tugged between his teeth. Peter needs to close his eyes or look away, anything to keep from staring. 

“Yeah, you can.” 

Dylan laughs, pulling Peter from his thoughts. 

“Holy shit, did I just fucking win!?” 

Checkmate. 

. . . 

Within the next week, Dylan becomes the best chess player Peter’s ever met. 

He wins every game they play, beats the fuck out of Peter every single time. 

But Peter doesn’t care, can’t even think about chess if he’s being completely honest with himself. All he thinks about is how Dylan’s eyes move from side to side as he contemplates his next move, how his hands grip the pieces when he moves them, how he bites that _damn _lip.__

__“Are you letting me win, Maldonado? If you are, you aren’t doing me any fucking favors.”_ _

__Peter shakes his head. He wishes he was lying._ _

__“I’m not fucking stupid, Peter. You don’t have to let me win.”_ _

__“I’m not, Dylan.”_ _

__“Whatever.”_ _

__Peter wants to make him believe it, but he can’t tell him the truth, can’t explain the way he’s feeling because he’s not even sure he understands it himself._ _

__So he sits back in silence and makes his first move thoughtlessly. Dylan’s biting his lip again. . . ._ _

__For the first time since his suspension started, since he began to spend every waking moment at Dylan’s house, in his room and on his bed, there isn’t a chess board between them. There isn’t a blunt between Dylan’s fingers. Concentration isn’t clouding his blue eyes._ _

__But it’s hard to see them now in the darkness that shrouds Dylan’s bedroom, their bodies almost touching but not quite. They’re facing each other, their bodies relaxed, laying side by side on Dylan’s small bed. Peter’s eyes keep searching Dylan’s face for signs of question, of a knowledge that he’s somehow figured out what Peter’s been so shamelessly thinking._ _

__Part of Peter’s sure that he has, but nothing Dylan gives away in the quiet darkness says that Peter’s unwittingly revealed his secret._ _

__The house is quiet. Dylan’s parents aren’t home, out on an anniversary vacation that Dylan insisted they not let him ruin. Peter’s glad that they did, even though he’s terrified, mostly of himself._ _

__Peter wants to touch him. He wants to reach out his hand, touch Dylan’s cheek, his smooth, soft skin. He wants to surround himself with the warmth of Dylan’s body, wants to wrap himself up in Dylan’s arms and just be held._ _

__He wants to kiss Dylan. He wants to feel the warm breath from Dylan’s mouth against his own, wants to taste him because he can imagine how sweet his mouth would be. He wants to run his tongue over the indentions in Dylan’s bottom lip, wants to be where Dylan’s teeth have been._ _

__God, he wants to kiss him so fucking bad._ _

__But Dylan interrupts his thoughts by breaking the comfortable silence._ _

__“I’m just a pawn to them.”_ _

__Peter stutters as he answers. He’s glad he can’t see Dylan’s face. It’s less distracting that way._ _

__“What do you mean?”_ _

__“It’s all I am. I’m disposable, taking the hit for the king. I’m the most worthless piece on the fucking board.”_ _

__Peter leans forward on his elbow, impossibly close to Dylan in the small bed, but somehow not close enough._ _

__“You aren’t a pawn, Dylan.”_ _

__“I am.”_ _

__Peter can feel Dylan’s breath, can almost taste it._ _

__“You aren’t, Dylan. You’re the fucking king.”_ _

__Dylan laughs, loud and bitter and heartbreaking. Peter wants to hold him, offer him comfort in some way, but he settles for speaking instead. Peter’s always been better with his words than with touch._ _

__“You’re the king, Dylan. You’re strong, can move any direction you wish to go, can’t be captured completely even when you’re surrounded by your enemies. You’re worth it, Dylan. You’re worth the protection of the entire army, of the queen and bishops and rooks and knights. If all of them died for you, laid down their lives in the face of your enemies, it would be ok. It would be ok because they would die for the most valuable, worthy piece on the board.”_ _

__Neither of them dare to speak for a few long moments, the silence between them so loud it deafens. Peter keeps opening his mouth, but closing it again because words don’t seem enough. He wonders desperately if he can fix the harm he’s done, if he can blink his eyes and take it all back, make Dylan forget that Peter’s feelings had come spilling out of him like water that the ground so desperately needs in the extremity of the heat wave._ _

__Peter touches Dylan’s face, strokes his soft cheek with his fingertips. There’s no harm in it now, after all. This may be his last chance, the last time he gets to touch Dylan Maxwell._ _

__“You’re my king, Dylan.”_ _

__Peter goes for it._ _

__He presses his lips gently against Dylan’s, a brief, delicate touch._ _

__Peter waits. Dylan stares up at him in shocked silence._ _

__This is it, the end of everything that has become the definition of Peter Maldonado’s life. This is the end of Dylan and Peter, and everything they could’ve been, everything Peter so desperately wished they could be._ _

__This is it. The fall of the king. The end of the game._ _

__Dylan’s eyes shine into his, the blue illuminated by the faint moonlight coming in through the window in the otherwise black darkness._ _

__Dylan pulls Peter in, their lips meet once more, and Peter can finally feel the indentions that he’s been staring at since the king’s first victory so long ago._ _

__The dam breaks, the water floods, and the heatwave ends._ _


End file.
